Ghost of the Dump
by Halie.F.Burne
Summary: Harry James Potter died for the first time, at the age of six years old, to be left in a large trash heap, far away from home. This, became his life. ((Non-canon, many pairings, may end up Drarry not sure yet, this will be updated))
1. Death

When Harry James Potter had turned six years old, he had died (for the first time that is) at the hand of his uncle Vernon, who was a rather large and ugly man. Death, had been soft - almost too soft - and peaceful, so painfully quiet, that his head almost began to hurt. Still, it wasn't a bad place to be, as the bruises on his arms, his legs, all over his (too small) body, no longer hurt, and though it was white, he could see easily. Death, was, he decided, not at all, as scary, as people made it seem. The reason, he had died, had been much scarier, in the six year-old's honest opinion. After all, almost burning down Uncle Vernon's prize shed, was something that made him very, very, very mad indeed. It wasn't the first time he had seen his uncle mad, his round, rolling face, turning first red, then purple, then an alarming shade of white, in fact if Harry had not been so scared, he would have found it rather amusing. However, he had been scared, terrified in fact, and so, it was not amusing in the slightest, but rather, like he was facing the devil himself.

Back on track, he had not found death, scary, in the slightest, not after having dealt with the Dursley's for five whole years. He knew he had lived with his parents, until he was one, so, simple maths dictated that he had been with his Aunt and Uncle, and disgustingly obese cousin, for only five. Death, was so pleasant, he found, that when he woke up, under piles of black bags, that stunk enough to made him gag, laying across the seats, of what might have once been a car, he was very upset. Enough, that, after pushing the bags off him, with the little strength he had, he tried to will himself to death again. Now, you and I both know this is impossible, however, so is coming back to life, for no reason, after being dead for at least a day, so, it wasn't too much to ask.

It didn't work, however, and he found himself, once again waking, this time with a little more strength, from the darkness that was his exhausted sleep, and peering around the dump, with squinted eyes, for, he no longer had his glasses. All in all, it lived up to its name, being a dump, through and through, but the car, still had a roof, that let in little water,and the seat he lay across, was nothing more than a bit smelly, but far more spacious than the cupboard under the stairs, at number 4 Privet Drive. And so, he settled down, and like Harry James Potter always had, got on with it.

He didn't see the Dursley's again after that, and instead, found himself in the rather large dump, that would, for a little while longer, become his home.


	2. Dreams

t did not take long for the rumors to start. The tales, and stories, the legends of a green eyed ghost, that haunted the trash, hidden in old cars and seated on washing machines that no longer worked. It was started by men who worked there, day and night, who'd speak about coal black hair, and electric green eyes. And then, the child would be gone. With a pop, that one could only hear if the air was silent, not a voice or a breath to be heard. And the stories grew, larger than life, embellished by the people, girls and boys, men and woman who wanted their sighting of the ghost child to be the best one. The most interesting one.

Now, Harry, didn't hear these tales. For the most part, they were airy, a fantasy about him, that he never heard. Because he was the ghost, so who would tell him the stories? Instead, he heard stories about the world beyond metal fenced walls, where people didn't live in old battered cars, where they'd sewn the pillows themselves, with a bent old needle, and thread found coiled around something nasty. It wasn't that he minded his house made out of cardboard boxes, and black bin liners, but some days he would remember the house at Privet Drive, and wondered what it would be like to live (really live) in a real house.

In the summer months, it was really just as bad as the winter months, but if he was lucky it rained less, and the sun was out more and his days weren't spent coughing and wheezing with what he was sure was the flu. It made his nose run, his throat itch, and on days like that, he wished for a bottle of clean water, rather than half empty bottles of coke, and pepsi, and juice, that tasted just as bed going down as it did coming back up. Those days, he wondered how he had lived so long, fought so hard, to be in a position like this. On those days, he cried.

On those days, he didn't notice the soft glow, of swirling silver, gold, and blue, that curled around him, but, he did feel the gentle warmth, that made his skin tingle.

In the sun, it was easier, there were no tell tale drips on the metal roof, that reminded him of just how cold he really was. In the sun, he could lay across rows of old tumble dryers, and dishwashers, or on the sofa, that to any normal person, would stink to high hell, and be calm for once. Calm, was of course, different to happy. After all, the sharp pangs of hunger still gnawed at his stomach, and the weakness, that made his legs tremble at times, would still be there, the constant pains in his head, right behind his eyes.

But he was calm. In the heat, it was peaceful, quiet, bar the buzz of machinery that always echoed in his ears, during the long slow days. Occasionally an engine would roar to life, startling him, from his perch, till he clambered up piles, mountains of rubbish, to stare out across the lifeless area, where little lived, bar the rats that scurried across the floor in the night.

He didn't mind the rats, they never bit or chewed at his feet, but would preen when he ran his hands through matted fur. And he didn't mind the odd spider, that he would find winding webs in the once windows of his car. In fact, it was a welcome change, to see another creature alive, and speak to them softly, his voice never loud. It wasn't that he never saw people, as they dumped things off, and went about their jobs, but, they never spoke. And if he tried, people would startle (Scream), run away, leaving him alone. The rats never screamed, or ran away, and would even scamper closer, if he littered crumbs of food around as he spoke.

Harry didn't always cry, but when he did, he dreamt of a family, or even a friend.


	3. Meetings

Ron Weasley had never been to a muggle dump before - his father had, in fact he went quite regularly, bringing back odd bits and bobs that he would tinker with for hours at a time, in their shed. Sometimes, he took Bill, or Charlie, or, if they were lucky Fred and George, but Ron hadn't gone before, having always been too young for one of these so called adventures. This time Arthur Weasley had decided to take his youngest son to a different dump that he usually did, having become a little too familiar with the piles of trash and rubbish.

To say that Ron was excited, was an understatement, this for any of the Weasley boys, was a rite of passage, and finally it was his turn to go.

The sound of their old car, was low and gravelly, and for the first time, he didn't have to strain his ears to hear it over the sound of his brothers, and mother and sister, as they spoke and screamed and groaned. For once, it was almost silent, with the quiet of the engine, and the soft tunes of muggle music, that came over the radio.

It took a little while to arrive at the dump, for they had driven all the way rather than apparating to their destination (It was another part of the rite of passage, Ron assumed) and when they did arrive, it was a cool autumn afternoon, with red and brown and orange leaves floating in the air. The first thing, he noticed, was the god-awful stench, that surrounded the dump, but when he had complained about it, his father had patted him on the head (Curse his childishly small stature) and said "You'll get used to it son". Ron guessed he would, but it might take awhile - he also promptly told his father this, and was rather offended when he laughed.

A soft, almost silent spell was cast, and then, Ron, was allowed to walk around alone, his father rushing off to find all sorts of strange things. The dump was strange, with many different items, some Ron had seen, and others, he had not a clue about. He had fun, looking for things though, even if sometimes liquids and mush, that he couldn't for the life of Merlin identify, got smeared on his hands, his legs, and every other bit of him, bar his face.

It was whilst he was digging through a pile of rubbish, having seen something glint gold, he'd heard a voice. Quiet, and carried by the wind, but he heard it, and a flash of red hair glinted in the sun, as he looked from side to side to side ferociously. When no more sound came, after minutes of concentrated listening, Ron assumed that he had imagined it, and then it came again.

This time, he kept quiet, following the childishly sweet voice, wondering if another boy had been bought here by his parents - or maybe it was a girl, Ron found it hard to tell.

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and all at once, until Ron's head hurt and ached, and blue eyes narrowed. Then quite suddenly, he saw green, cat like eyes staring out at him, from between an old car window. For a seven year old boy such as Ron, it was rather a shock, but he was used to his dreadful brothers Fred and George, who were always playing mean tricks, so, he didn't scream, but gasped, and stared.

The eyes blinked, slowly first, wide and fearful, and Ron stared back.


	4. Friends

They stared at each other, for more than a few long moments, and Ron's mouth parted in slight shock.

"Who are you?" He managed to say, voice cracking a few times before he choked the words out, looking at the strange, faye-like boy ahead of him. Green eyes blinked slowly, and Harry (Though Ron did not know that that was his name) tilted his head to the side, much like a curious cat might. Blue eyes squinted a little, and the youngest Weasley male spoke again.

"Who, are, you?" He spoke slower this time, continuing to stare at the dirtier child, before Harry gave a soft shrug of shoulders, not saying a word back. Sighing softly, Ron sat down, and watched green eyes watch him, with little more sound.

This, quickly got boring, as one may imagine. So, being the type of boy he was, Ron decided to speak for them both, and soon launched into a loud, descriptive tale of the time Fred and George and Bill dyed his hair pink (Complete with over exaggerated hand movements.

"And then, do you know what they did!? They laughed at me you know! Well, I swore to get my revenge, because you do not laugh at Ron Weasley!" Breathless, by the end of his tale, he grinned at the strange emerald eyed boy, who was smiling softly, with quiet giggles every so often.

"I'm Harry." Having become so accustomed to his own voice, Ron nearly jumped from his own skin, at the sound of the other. Now, he had heard a lot of voices in his life - some, were loud and loving and brisk, like his mother, Molly Weasley, some, soft and strict and kind (His father's voice was like that) and others, were angry at the world, and harsh as if rarely used; a neighbour, whose name he didn't know - but he had never heard such a beautiful voice before.

Harry had a voice, that was soft, almost feathery, that was barely more than a whisper, yet, his attention snapped to it. To call it feminine, would be wrong, but no other boy spoke in tones as sweet as that.

Blue eyes blinked, and he stared for a second before smiling.

"Nice to meet you Harry, I'm Ron" And that, was the start of their friendship.


	5. Strange

Ron didn't go to the dump every week, but he tried to. Sometimes, it was just that Arthur quite simply couldn't go, but as his youngest (boy) was interested in the same as him, he was quite happy to go to the muggle dump each weekend. To be fair, Ron wasn't as interested as he tried to seem, rather, he wanted to see Harry when they went, so he played along for his father's sake. It wasn't too hard, for Arthur Weasely was easy to fool - and if he took a bit too much food, well, he was a growing boy, right?

Harry, was, as his mother would say, far too thin. Therefore Ron made it his duty to fatten him up a bit. It wasn't easy. They saw each other, on average (Ron had learnt about averages in school quite recently) only once a fortnight, and he couldn't sneak a buffet in his bag. So, he'd hand over apples, and banana's, and biscuits, and buns, to the younger - Harry was obviously younger - boy, along with large bottles of water, because he knew his friend needed them more.

And they'd talk. Whether it be about Ron's life, or Harry's life, or the stories surrounding the strange dump. Be it of the muggle world, the wizarding world, and all manner of things in between.

Life wasn't easy, but in Harry's opinion, it was significantly better from before. And with his growing happiness, magic crooned.

Harry had been aware of magic, ever since Ron had told him, but had perhaps understood it for much longer. It was the force; that kept him warm, on snowy winter nights; that kept him dry, when the rain poured through the rusted holes in the roof; that kept him (mostly) clean, even in a dump. And he knew, for a fact, that magic seemed to like him, feeling it, like a blanket, wrapped around his shoulders, when he was down, trying to make him smile.

When he had told Ron of this, he had laughed, and rolled his eyes, for the first few minutes, before becoming ever so intrigued at the thought. Could Harry control magic? Why could he feel it, see it? Why couldn't Ron? These thoughts, echoed through both minds.

Some days, they sat in the car, and spoke, other days, they'd lounge on the rows of washing machines, that they'd layer in, admittedly old, tatty, blankets. It was the closest thing Harry had ever felt to love. It was warm, in his chest, and made his cheeks pink, with what wasn't cold or fever, and made him giggle from the thought of it all. If, he ever managed to get hold of old magazines, that girls would perhaps read, he would trace the words like love, and with his finger, pretend to write their names in the pink, red, white, hearts.

When Ron was nine and they assumed Harry was too, they held hands as they spoke, and something, rather strange happened.


	6. Trips

It started, as a light glow, surrounding hands, in a mix of blue and silver, and it carried on up their arms, tingling and tickling as it did. Having always been the more perceptive of the two, Harry noticed it first, giving out a slight squeak, shocked at the strange light.

"Ron… it's being weird…" And then the red head looked down, to blink, and agree with his friend.

"It is." He stated, quite simply, nodding in agreement, and for that, Harry shoved him lightly, snorting Ron's idiocy. When they had let go of their hands, a shock of pain went through both their arms, and they clasped their hands together once more. "What's happening..?"

That day, Harry met Arthur Weasley for the first time, being tugged along by the elder red head, struggling, and resisting all the way. When they came across the man, Harry, had shrunk away, trying to hide behind his larger, and stronger friend. Now, the scar on his head, was coated I dirt – like much of him – and black hair fell over it anyway, but Arthur recognized jade eyes, that shone like precious stones.

"Ron, who is this?" It was a simple question, but Ron merely shrugged in response, holding their hands up. Arthur narrowed his eyes, and looked over, before sighing softly and gesturing for the two to follow him. Whoever the boy was – and if it was who we thought it was, they were in trouble – was obviously now important to his son. Too important, one might say.

As they'd been bundled into the car, Ron and Harry looked at each other nervously, eyes wide. What was happening? Yet, neither asked, a little scared, by the worried look on Arthur's worn face, and the fear in his eyes.

The car started up slowly, a low grumbling sound coming from its core, and then they were on their way, through twisting turning country lanes, away from the hub of muggle life. It was a different road, to the one, that Arthur usually took, and Ron didn't recognize it, so merely stared at Harry with a weak smile.

"Don't worry, Dad's smart, he'll know what to do! He works for the Ministry of Magic, don't you know?" Ron spoke quietly, but fast, with an air, that begged Harry to believe him, the ghostly, waif of a boy, merely nodded, and curled closer to his friend. The car ride was strangely silent, with no music playing on their old stutter radio, and little talking between the three males.

They arrived, outside, a large manor-house estate, and Ron, was befuddled as to what was happening. Harry, even more so.


	7. Malfoy

In the sun, the manor glinted dangerously, all white marble on black, with gardens carefully tended and made, clean and perfect. Harry felt rather out of place, his magic - no their magic, his and Ron's - curling around the two boys protectively. Neither of them were right here, their ragged old clothes, and dirt and scars making them the complete opposite of whoever lived in the house. The car spluttered and then died, Mr. Weasley stepping out and away. Two young boys stayed stubbornly still, and he sighed, watching his son, watching Harry Potter carefully, his blue eyes contemplating. Inside, another father sat, unknowing of what was going on, but in one, carefully manicured bush (Or rather behind it) grey eyes, more silver in tone really, watched.

The third child, knew well of the red haired family, who his father spoke of in hushed tones, when he believed his son to be sleeping. Now, he listened and watched the man (Arthur Weasley his brain supplied) and the car, and his son, and another boy with messy black hair carefully.

"Come on Ron. There's someone here who can help us." Arthur spoke calmly, his voice hushed and soft, like he was enticing a stray dog to eat from his palm, but from his son, all he received was narrowed eyes, and a glance at his friend, their glowing hands, and the house ahead. For a few long moments, they sat like that, in silence, unaware of eyes the shade of unicorn blood watching them from a distance. It was Harry who broke the silence.

"Let's go Ron." Arthur blinked slowly, listening to the lyrical voice, similar to a sirens song, and his stubborn son nodded. Together, the boy clambered out of the old car, first shoes, and then bare feet stepping onto the stones, that decorated the Malfoy driveway.

Now Arthur Weasley did not like Lucius Malfoy, and they were certainly more enemies than friends, but he trusted him. It was simple as that. They had gone to school together, learnt secrets together, and he trusted, though disliked the pureblood. It was a private bond they shared, one that not even Arthur's wife, his children, or the rest of his family knew about. Until now. Narcissa, he liked more, she was a kind woman, if not spiteful at times, but caring to those he considered family, and he liked that. Arthur also knew, that if there was one person he could trust with Harry Potter, and his son, and the strange blue light it was Lucius Malfoy.

Harry did not wince as the cold, hard stones pressed into his feet - he had felt worse at the dump, worse still at the Dursleys - and was used to pain. The house intimidated him, more so than piles of precariously balanced metal and scrap, more so than the house at Privet Drive, and it scared him too. Ron squeezed his hand, and they followed Arthur to the two large doors, painted in black, delicate silver handles gracing it. It was Ron, that heard another set of feet crunching the gravel and rock, and he turned, as his father tapped the wood, to see a blond haired boy, not much older than himself watching them. Harry, in turn, followed Ron's gaze, to look at the fay like child.

Draco Malfoy was used to getting his own way. He was a Malfoy after-all, and Malfoys always got what they wanted, in the end, so when he saw the blue and silver light, surrounding their hands, their arms, he wanted to know why.

"What's wrong with your hands?" The boy spoke with a natural Malfoy sneer, and Ron bristled under the grey eyes, magic sparking in their clutched hands, until a soft cooing sound stopped him. In the same moment, the large doors swung open, to reveal a much taller blond.


	8. Ties

Arthur Weasly and Lucius Malfoy were unlikely allies, and nothing really seemed to connect them on the outside, not truly. Yes, they both came from old, pureblood families, and even Arthur, a lover of many things muggle admired his heritage enough to marry another pureblood - but that was it. At least to most people it was. But their allegiance didn't come from their shared blood status, no, it really was much simpler than that. It was a promise they hadn't meant to make, but now, magic swore them too it, and they had promised, not to protect each other, but their children. The way such a strange vow had come about was odd in itself, but neither would share the memory, and if Narcissa (The only other who knew about their promise) asked, she would get a small shrug and a wistful smile. From both men. Now, Arthur thought, it was time to call Lucius in on his promise, and he could only hope that Harry would be safe too - in the back of his mind, he knew Lucius well enough to know any child was safe, but he worried none the less.

At the sight of two great flashes of red, a mop of unruly blackish brown, and blond slightly off to the side, Lucius blinked, perhaps the only showing of his shock, and raised a perfectly sculptured eyebrow to stare at the scene ahead of him. It was odd, that was for sure, and so, he ushered them in quickly, glad the wards of the large house stopped any prying eyes, or pictures being taken. They wouldn't have been, the Malfoy family was too important, to prestigious for that, but it never hurt to be safe. He noted his son watching them, along with blue eyes similar to Arthur's own, but it was the green that caught him out. Some might say they were like uncut emeralds, beautiful, rare, but dull in their sheen. Lucius Malfoy was not, some people. He thought they looked rather like green pine leaves in the winter, beautiful in their survival, but dangerous too.

"Dad... Why are we here?" Ron was the youngest of the Weasley children, barring his little sister, who should have not survived her birth, what with the complications around it, and was, the seventh child that Arthur had. Not sixth, like the world thought, for he had one silent child, buried beneath the Earth, that had died mere moments after his birth, for reasons still unknown. It made Ron special though. Very special. Realising that his father was in fact, in a world of his own, Ron repeated the question louder, startling the older ginger from his memories.

"Sorry Ron." Finally replying, but not answering his question, he sat on a chair, crafted from brown leather, and let the two bound boys sit on the sofa like seat (Chaise-lounge, his mind said) and watched. "We're here because Lucius can help" It took moments of contemplative silence, as he thought on the question, watching the two quietly. In a larger chair, Lucius sat almost silently, and Draco was much the same, curled in the corner of another couch. The room was a small study like place, with a desk in the corner, and a coffee table stood proudly in the middle of the circle of chairs, a crest, the Malfoy crest, and if Arthur felt out of place in it, he could only imagine how Ron felt. How Harry felt.

It was at this point Lucius decided he should cut in, seeing two sets of eyes, one blue, suspicious and a little angry, and the other green, curious and inquisitive, staring at him.

"Your father is right, little Weasley, I can help. That bond you've managed to catch yourself in is rather tricky to deal with." A Fellowship bond was rare, more than friendship, less than brothers, and with elements similar to a lover's bond, they were often hard to find. He had seen one other in living memory, and that had never sparked so bright, magic curling around the clasped hands angrily. Once started, it had to be completed, and that was more complicated than it sounded. Trust Arthur's son to do such a thing. Trust him indeed. The oldest Malfoy could feel his sons eyes on him, and discreetly, shook his head, not asking Draco to leave, but telling him to stay silent. Grey eyes narrowed, their shade darker than before, like smoke curling inside an orb, before Lucius did something rather rare. He sighed. "Rather tricky indeed"


	9. Bonding

The tension in the air, could be cut with a knife. Now Ron was young, but he had heard of the Malfoy's, and heard of all their ways, and it wasn't as if the stories were nice. According to Fred (Or was it George?) they were spiteful, mean-spirited, and cruel in their ways, and the twins had often tried to scare Ron into nightmares with their tales. Ron wasn't stupid either, he knew what his brothers were trying to do, but he was a child, and sometimes it all got too much. And sometimes he was suspicious, like now, as he stared at the Malfoy senior; eyes dark with doubt. Beside him, a smaller boy sighed, glancing around the room with wide eyes.

Having never been in such luxury before, for Harry, the simple room was a sight to behold, it's curling bookcases, leather seats, and glass chandelier, that hung from the ceiling proudly, were startling. Ron, if he had taken the time to look at the room, and not at the blond ahead of him, might have felt much the same way – but he didn't.

"A Fellowship bond, is rare for many reasons. You'll have to complete a ritual to finish the bond." Lucius spoke after minutes of quiet, his silver eyes narrowed, and for a second, they connected with blue, the same shade as the boys father's were, and he felt a spark of magic in the air. The child was strong. Almost as strong as his own son, but with much less finesse. Perhaps… No, Arthur would never agree to that. But maybe. He would have to be careful.

"A ritual?" This time, Arthur and his son spoke at almost the same time, one voice shocked, the other, more confused. From the corner of the room, the third, almost forgotten boy snorted, and Harry smiled, looking over at the miniature blond, who turned away quickly. Green eyes drooped, and he curled closer to Ron again, who squeezed his hand lightly.

"Yes Weasley's. A ritual, you hav-" It was at this point another voice piped up, soft and gentle, causing four sets of eyes to turn to him.

"What's a ritual?" Harry, who hadn't grown up around magic, and spells, was feeling rather left out by this point. Lucius blinked - had those stupid muggles not told him anything? Probably not, they were, after all, just stupid muggles. The blond sighed, his eyebrows narrowing - explaining rituals to someone who had grown up around magic, was easy. Explaining them to someone who hadn't, well wasn't. Green eyes watched him, head tilted to the side. Another sigh escaped the oldest Malfoy.

"It's a magical ceremony, done in a specific order, to create a bond, a ward, anything really. They're more powerful than any single spell." Forcing himself to speak slowly, the Malfoy elder stood, leaning on a long thin cane, topped with a silver cane. The study was cold, and he turned back to stare at the others in the room. Something felt strange. "Come on boys.. And Arthur" A small smirk curled his lips though, as he made his way through the manor, its twisting hallways and winding stairs making the three newcomers feel quite lost. Harry curled closer to the older boy, squeezing his hand nervously, but he looked around with excitement, eyes wide with awe.

"Look Ron.. the pictures are moving, jus' like you told me" He kept his voice quiet, but his delight was clear, even in a whisper, and his green eyes constantly flicked from one side to another as he stared around at the house. Behind them, Draco walked, watching the two boys carefully, and silently wishing he could join in with their chatter, for they both seemed so happy - he wondered what it was like to have a friend. He'd never had a friend before, there were tutors and allies, and people his own age around to play, but he wouldn't say that any of them were friends. Not in the way that Ron and Harry were. Pale hands clenched into fists, eyes narrowed, before he calmed himself, schooling his features into a blank mask Well, he would just have to make friends, he told himself, and with a small nod, that one would not have caught if they weren't looking closely, he steeled himself against what might happen. Speeding a little, he came to stand next to Ron, who was the tallest of the three, and looked up at him.

"Hello?" And then he hated himself, because his voice came out a lot weaker than it could have, and though he managed not to stutter, it was close in itself. Still, when two pairs of eyes turned to look at him, he considered it an accomplishment, for at least he had managed to get their attention, but he was lost now, what was he meant to say next? "I'm Draco... it's nice to meet you. We don't have a lot of visitors." Okay, it was a lie, but only a small one, and it was true that they didn't have a lot of visitors with clouds of ginger hair, and eyes the colour of burnt jade. He got one smile, and a nervous look in return, and gave a small smile back, his own filled with desperate need to be liked.

"I'm Harry. It's nice to meet you too" Silver met green, just for a moment, and Draco flushed deep red, looking away, for his heart had almost beat out of his chest, in that moment, and he didn't have a clue why, and now he was wrong. Because Malfoys weren't meant to blush and whimper and simper, and he had, he had broken the mask, and if his father had noticed (He hadn't luckily, as he was talking with Arthur in hushed tones) he would have of been yelled to hell's end and back. He wasn't, but it was still embarrassing. The smallest male laughed lightly, hiding the sound behind his one free hand with a shy sort of smile, and in Draco's mind, that made everything okay. Ron, just continued to scowl, the expression looking rather strange on his face, which was usually rather happy.

"Yeah..." After a few seconds, the ginger boy just shrugged in agreement, and glanced around the hallway.

Lead into what could be a large, opulent room, the two gingers barely batted an eyelid, yet little Harry was disappointed from the lack of grandeur dripping from the ceiling, wondering why an obviously wealthy man like Mr. Malfoy had left the room so bare and barren. Of course, what all of them, sans Harry, knew was that this was Malfoy Manor's Ritual Room. After a moment of awkward silence, deep, silky tones rang through the room.

"If you gentlemen would kindly stand over there, I must have room to work." The Malfoy Lord ordered - for a Malfoy never asked- gesturing to a part of the wall, as he both spelled the floor an inky black that seemed it would swallow you up, never to be seen again, and also conjured a piece of pristine white-as-snow chalk.

Young Draco kept trying to engage the youngest Weasley boy in conversation, only to have his efforts snuffed out like one would a candle, while any attempts at speaking with Harry only resulted in awed ignorance, as jade green eyes watched with unconcealed rapture as Lucius drew ramrod straight lines and constructed sweeping arcs, all intermixed with strange, alien symbols that, once finished, glowed with an eerie, unearthly light, seemingly from within, that was further matched once the runic circle was complete; the light glaringly bright on the pale walls and causing all the occupants of the room to shield their eyes while the light calmed and dimmed - almost sensing their discomfort.

"Now, if you two young men could stand here, and do be careful not to destroy the lines." The elder blond stated, fetching an ancient, medieval looking goblet and an equally as old looking, dusty bottle of deep red, ritual wine while Ron and Harry took their places Lucius had indicated; Ron hurrying away from Draco as if he carried dragon pox. Returning to stand beside the young boys, Lucius drew two separate athames from a dark oak wood box which had been promptly delivered by a house elf. "If you could hold out your right hands – that is your left, Mr. Weasley." Malfoy chided with a raised eyebrow as Ron hurriedly switched hands. "Good, now if you would each take an athame and make an incision across your palm, we can begin."

Lucius watched apathetically as blood welled from the thin cuts on each boy's hand and when there was a fair sized pool, he collected three drops – no more, no less – from Ron and Harry into the goblet, pouring in enough of the wine to fill it halfway. "You both will need to drink this, Mr. Weasley first as he is the eldest of the two of you, however, while doing so you must clasp hands. Otherwise this could very well kill you." States indifferently as he mixes the liquids together, beginning a low, almost lyrical chant in his deep voice, Ron and Harry holding each other's bloodied and bleeding hand; sipping out of the goblet when it is offered to them.

A sudden flash of light blinds all the occupants of the room, and then fades as fast as it came, leaving to young boys blinking and squinting at each other, green staring into blue. For a moment, little seems to have happened, but it is Lucius who sees it first, the slight, subtle changes to both children, there is red glinting off black hair now, and Ron no longer has freckles smattering across his face, and arms his skin smooth and unblemished. The biggest change, is perhaps the swirls of silver and blue that make their way up two pairs of arms, crisscrossing across tightly clenched palms, and curling around their wrists. For a few moments, all is still and silent, then both Ron and Harry collapse to the floor, magic and energy exhausted.


	10. Life

He awakes, in that same silent place once more, its white fluff, like he is inside a cloud, dancing across his vision. There is nothing on his face, yet he can see perfectly, and now that he looks, and touches, there is nothing on any part of him, bar hair and skin, but he is not cold, or hot, merely pleasantly, perfectly warm. It is a strange sensation, because he has never felt it before (You did last time) something whispers in his ear, but he ignores it, and looks around. For a moment, he believes he is lying down, but as soon as that thought comes, he is stood on his bare feet, not disorientated or unsettled at all. Blue and silver strands dart between the clouds of white now, and it is different to how he remembers. But not quite, and still so quiet, he thinks it must be his own heart he can hear beating.

Last time he was in such a place, he woke up too quickly, and was rather too scared to do much, but the child, far too small and skinny, walks through the clouds this time, any trace of fear gone. He's done this before. At first he tries to follow the twisting strands, but they contort and writhe before his eyes, so he is content to just walk without point around the emptiness. Something murmurs in the back of his mind, that maybe, he could stay here, and not have to go anywhere at all - he'd never hurt again. Another counters, what about Ron, and Draco, and many other friends he could make. For now, he ignores both the voices, and continues to walk. Harry does not know how long he walks for, in this place - death - it is timeless, he feels no hunger, or thirst or tiredness, and his feet never begin to ache. He does, however admit, it is boring here.

Whispers begin to echo in his head, and this time, the voices are not his own. They call to him, begging him to wake up, to come back, but he shakes his head. Why should he leave this place? It is safe and warm and comforting in the way real life never was. Reality holds little appeal in his dream world, especially when he learns what he can do.

He touches a blue strand first - for some reason it calls to him in the way that the silver doesn't, and sings when he presses one finger delicately against it, and sparks in colour harmlessly. For a moment, he merely dances his fingers along the strand, and follows it into the nothing. Then, he pulls. At first the strand resists (briefly he wonders what it is made of) but soon, bends towards him, and he twines it around his hands, blinking in shock when the colour sinks into his skin, and leaves him branded, with what looks like a blue tattoo, curling around his palm. He thinks, that in the real world, he might have screamed, but here, everything is lulled, and he merely watches, almost bored, in the strange stupor.

The voices calling him get fainter, almost disappearing altogether, when one speaks out, softly, but louder than all the rest, making him stop dead in his tracks.

_"Harry... don't leave me."_ It sounds so desperate, so needy, he stops dead in his tracks, wondering if he might sink through the cloud, and thinks he feels tears dripping on his skin. When he reaches up his face, he finds that he is crying, but doesn't know why. The voice continues to break, becoming ever more broken with each plea. It tugs at his heart, and he knows he has to go back - though he doesn't know why.

Harry Potter, wakes from death, with a start, unknowingly, the Boy-Who-Lived three times over. Above him, a red headed boy sobs, curled around his body, which aches with disuse. How long had he laid in the stiff white bed? Where was he? Who was above him? Questions like these echoed through his mind, and then, in a snap, he remembers everything. The first thing, that he says, after this revelation, is "Ron."

All eyes in the room, and there are four pairs of them, turn to look at him, and he winces at how breathless and hoarse his voice sounds. His sobbing friend is the first to react, and before Harry can do anything, there are lips pressed against his own, frantic but innocent, and he is not quite sure what to do. When Ron pulls away, his cheeks match his hair, in a rather revolting clash (though not as bad as the orange and lime green sofa he had once seen in the dump. No surprises there) and he looks rather ashamed of himself.

Harry, on the other hand, felt truly alive. He opens his eyes properly, ignoring how they sting as harsh sunlight burns against them, and wriggles, in an attempt to sit up, that makes his muscles burn, and relishes in the slight pains that mean he is not dead, or dying. In fact, for the first time since he can remember, he feels truly healthy, and everything is crystal clear. He never thought he had bad eyes before, but now he can see everything in full clarity, it amazes him, and he knows for sure he's been missing out.

Ron shifts atop him, and he groans as he realises what a dead weight he is, muttering something about a lump, as Ron grins and screeches, and almost cries again - he doesn't cry, big Weasley boys don't cry. Harry tries to jokingly push him off, and squeaks lightly, when he realises they are no longer bound together by magic. Another realisation comes, as he figures out the strange coloured strands in his dreamworld (which is quickly fading) were magic, and he looks at his hand. Along with the thick blue line across the middle of his palm, hundreds more dance faintly over his knuckles, and wrist, and all up his four fingers and thumb. It is both a shock, and strangely exhilarating, and when he looks at Ron, he notes the elder has matching ones in silver. He almost forgets about the other people in the room, enamoured by tracing the beautiful pattern that the marks make, on both their arms, until one Lucius Malfoy awkwardly clears his throat. But it is not awkward, because of course, this is a Malfoy we are talking about.

Both boys on the bed turn to him, and give matching blushes of the same shade, enough to make any old lady swoon. However, Lucius isn't an old lady, and merely raises a blond, perfectly sculpted eyebrow in response.

"Good to see you're awake and alive. When your heart stopped, we all worried, but obviously the _Boy-Who-Lived_" he spits out the words "Lives once more. I do believe that is down to the younger Weasley, so, do thank him, when you get the chance." Harry nods dumbly in response to this statement, and blinks at the older man once more.

In the end, he just asks "Boy-Who-Lived?" And shifts awkwardly in the bed. Now he is fully awake, he feels dirty, hot, and needs a good clean, but he has gone longer being filthy, and can wait if needed. He doesn't, Malfoy isn't stupid and waves the question away.

"Bath first, story time later." And that is the end of that, as far as Lucius is concerned. Harry doesn't question it, and turns to face the other boy in the room, looking over him a little more curiously. Draco Malfoy is a rather pretty boy, a little taller than Harry, and a few inches shorter than Ron, with pale blond hair, that frames his face like a halo. Harry wonders if he is an angel, but that would mean he is in Heaven, and he rather likes being alive. So he just calls Draco beautiful in his head, and looks into storm-like grey eyes. Ron, squeezes his hand.

Ron, is not beautiful, in the ethereal way that Draco is, but has a rugged handsomeness to him, broad shoulders, and bright eyes. Harry likes the fact he is taller, because it means he can cuddle into him, like they did if it rained, or the wind blew, and feel warm and safe in his arms. He concludes later, that he likes Ron better, because in all honesty, Draco looks like a bit of a pansy when it comes to snuggling.

It is Arthur Weasley who picks him up, and carries him to a bathtub, that could fit his whole car inside, and he can't stop the gasp of awe. Another, louder one escapes, when the water comes on without a word, filling the bath with steaming hot water, and enough bubbles to go over his head. It is the best bath of his life.

He sleeps for hours after the bath, in a cushy bed, that could fit no less than ten of him inside, and doesn't wake up, or even stir once.


	11. Chaos

He wakes up normally this time, in a room larger than any that were in the Dursleys, and far larger than his car. The bed is large, bigger than even Aunt Petunia's, and Uncle Vernons had been at Privet Drive with four tall posters and a canopy above. There are also curtains, tied against the posts, in ivory and green, that seem comforting in some way. In fact, many things in the room are those colours, the floors stone with green rug, the walls a calm ivory, with emerald streaks at the top and bottom. He wonders why, before realising that it doesn't really need to know, and there are more important things to worry about. Like why he is trapped in this room, where he is, why is he not in his car, and why does it smell so sweet. He is used to petrol and rotting fruit, so much so he does not notice anymore, but the smell of lavender makes him gag almost painfully.

The duvet is warm around him, tucked up to almost his neck, but feels constricting, and his chest tightens painfully. It itches against his skin, far too clean, like Dudley's used to be, after laundry day, when Harry had been tasked to make the beds. He wants to get out. Struggling gets him nowhere, the blankets too tight around his neck, and he can barely breath, only freezing, when a small pop echoes around the almost silent room. Green eyes spins to the source of the noise, and there, stood quivering, is a funny little creature with big bug eyes, and ears almost as long as the poor things face. With a snap of wrinkly fingers the covers release him, and he shoves them as far away as them as possible, wishing he could do the same with the pajamas, and his breathing begins to ease, it is only then the tiny thing before him begins to speak.

"Beaky is sorry little Master! Beaky did not know yous would not like it!" She (Harry thinks it's a girl) speaks fast, almost so fast he cannot understand what she is saying, and merely stares blankly at her, before she pops away, hand twisting locks of dark hair, a habit he had always had. Harry sits in shock for a few moments, wondering if this is the hell, that Aunt Petunia said he would end up at. Thinking, makes him realise, that hell would have more Dursley's than Ron's, and sighs lightly. It is beginning to get dark outside, the sun dipping deep behind the low hills of the country, and the moon high, half full in the purple sky. If he strains his eyes, he can see silver stars dotting the backdrop, and he smiles at everyone of them, wishing upon the light. His skin itches to be outside again, this room is too hot and stuffy and tight, too bright with its fake lighting, and he hates it, and he misses the feeling of wind on his face. It is a physical ache, and slowly he crawls out of bed. The window, is far too high to jump out of, but there are vines clinging to the wall, which he could climb down easily.

_How would Ron feel?_

The voice is fleeting, coming and going quickly, but leaves the thought echoing around his mind. Yes, he could climb the house and land safely on the floor, but it would be a risk. Could he take it, so soon after scaring his friend the first time. It felt bad, made his stomach itch inside, and he couldn't figure out why. He was nine, he didn't need permission. Small hands pushed the window open, surprised at how easily it opened under his touch. Wind rushed in, cold and biting at his cheeks, seeming that tad colder after the warmth he had been wrapped in. He hadn't meant to get hurt. Had only meant to lean out of the window and look at the darkening night. He hadn't meant to fall.

And then he was falling, all at once hard and fast, and in slow motion towards the ground below. he could hear the wind whistle in his ears as he fell, high pitched like the screams he sometimes heard in his dreams. C see flashes of blue, red, black and green as he fell, body plummeting and tumbling towards the cold hard ground for what seemed like forever. Harry was struck with the cold, hard fear that most people felt before death - and then realised it didn't matter. So he let himself relax as he dropped, remembering the start of a book he had read once, long ago, about a girl who fell down a hole.

When he hit the ground, it didn't hurt; the next thing he knew were two redheads, and blonds fussing over him, with the smallest blond scolding him for being so stupid. He had a large robe wrapping him up, and strong arms lifting him from the ground. A small hand, though larger than his own, squeezed his own fingers, and Harry briefly thought about how he couldn't feel his toes anymore.

And then he smiled.

This was also, the first time he met Narcissa Malfoy, a tall blond woman, with thin features, but a soft smile on her pale lips. When she squeezed his ankle, he hadn't felt it, nor when she had tapped his knee, and though she kept smiling, there was a crease of worry between her eyebrows. Draco (the small Malfoy) explained to him, that his mother - Narcissa - was a Healer (like a Doctor, Arthur said) and she was trying to make him better.

"What's wrong with me..?" It was spoken with a tone of bewilderment, fear and confusion, the little raven haired boy not quite understanding. Draco shrugged a little, and looked over at his mother.

"She has to find that out too." He stated after a few moments of quiet. Ron, who was being quite unlike himself, strangely hadn't said a word throughout the whole thing, merely squeezing his Bonded's hand, and murmuring softly in his ear. Whenever the eldest child squeezed a little harder than he perhaps should have, Harry felt a wave of fear, stronger than his own wash through him, and he'd look towards his friend, seeing tears in big blue eyes. It made his heart clench pathetically. Slowly, the light outside the window faded completely, and lights flickered on in the room. One by one, with Arthur and Ron being the first, people began to trickle out, until Harry was left with a blond child by his side, grey eyes big and worried for him. For a few moments, minutes ticked by silently, and Harry looked down at his hands awkwardly, not knowing what to do. It was, in fact, Draco that spoke first quiet and shy as if he had never had a friend before in his life. "My name is Draco if you didn't realise. I think I told you. You're Harry. Do you know about magic?"

Magic was something he'd heard about at school, in books and sometimes on the tv shows that Dudley had liked to watch, but it wasn't real. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had told him that time and time again, hissed it to him at any moment, and beaten him, until he truly believed it. But… if magic wasn't real, than how did he wake up after being beaten to certain death. How did he survive so long alone, in a dump full of wasted goods and gone off food, how did he survive this fall. Of course, those could be all put down to luck in the end, however, if magic truly and strictly wasn't real, what had happened with Ron. Had caused the glow on their hands, and the marks on his arms, and the strands in his dreams.

Harry thought, and thought some more, staring at the wall in the distance, as he drifted away from the conversation with Draco, tuning in to his own world. One could not blame him however, he had spent years alone. Even with the Dursleys he was to be not seen, and not heard, unless they wanted something, and Ron wasn't there all the time. Draco was a spoilt child in contrast, with loving parents, who were strict but kind, and treated him right. So it wasn't a surprise when he quickly grew bored of Harry's silence. But, he kept quiet, because it was interesting to watch another child - one that hadn't grown up to be a perfect Slytherin. Harry liked to flick his fingers, or tug at his hair, as he glanced around the room, wincing at the harsh light that came from the lights hanging from the ceiling. Sometimes, small, recently whitened teeth would chew at his lips nervously and Draco wondered why.

"Not really.." Eventually, Harry answered, not looking towards the blond, his eyes darting around the large infirmary that he had been put in. Draco pouted, and scowled to himself, wanting to be looked at when he was speaking with someone, but too nervous of the younger, that he didn't touch him, or say a word. Instead, he merely muttered something about 'Muggles' which Harry didn't understand, and glared even more. To be honest, Harry did want to know more about magic, and wanted to ask, but he couldn't get the words to spill from his mouth, couldn't find a way to ask - it wasn't like with Ron, who he knew and trusted just enough to feel safe around, Ron, who could see when he was stuttering and stumbling and needed help - not at all, Draco was cold and slightly scary and he felt sick inside, tugging at his hair once more.

Eventually, after moments more of the horrid silence, filled with tension, Narcissa returned to take her child to bed, and Harry was left alone to the silence. The lights flicked off, giving his eyes a break from their glare, and he was left alone, in the hot and itchy bed sheets, wishing he had his old blanket, and the leather car seats, and smell of gasoline in his nose, for anything was better than being bundled up and stuffy, in a place that smelt far too much of clean and tidy. Harry wanted to run away, wanted to go home, but instead, he couldn't even feel his legs anymore. He wanted to cry, but had no tears left, none that he could spill, and so just tugged at his hair, flicked and picked at his fingers, and felt his breath come in quick staccatos that he couldn't control. And more than anything, he wanted Ron, and didn't know why, and that made everything even worse.

In the end, he falls into a fitful sleep, upper body tossing and turning on the bed, unable to get any semblance of rest, the world far too quiet, and therefore loud, for his liking.

* * *

When he woke up once more, he felt restless, and could still not move his legs, or even, wriggle his toes, and he was quite alone. The sun had only just rose in the window, the sky dyed orange and blue as it climbed, sending waves of light through the windows that spanned one long wall. It was cooler than the day before, and he could find the space to breath, as he pushed the thin blankets from his form, and glanced around. It was far too white in his new room, and the colour burnt at his eyes, as he stared, unable to get up. Tugging at his hair, he sighed, wishing the windows would open. What did the Malfoys have against fresh air?

Like magic (no, it was magic he told himself) they flipped open, and cool, clean morning air, still moist, rushed in through the window, and curled around him, like an old friend. That was new. Harry blinked, and narrowed his eyes, as the wind, cold and crisp, curled around his hands, and when he pointed towards the beds, lined in a row, next to his own, the sheets quivered and flipped, ruffling into a mess.

That was cool.

Seemingly pleased, the air messed his hair, until his head felt cold, but calm, and the sun warmed the room. Still, he felt dirty and tired, and couldn't help the yawn that escaped his lips, rubbing a tanned hand over his eyes. Pushing the duvet down as far as it would go, he pulled his dead weight legs into a more comfortable position to lay in, tugging them up against his chest, and let the wind curl around him protectively. For the first time, since Harry Potter could remember, he fell into a deep, comfortable sleep, and felt happy with the world.

* * *

He didn't awake again, until a warm hand was pressed against his forehead, and he blinked up into the crystal blue eyes, of Narcissa Malfoy, whose lips were pursed in worry. She didn't say a word, but let her expression melt into a smile, when she noted the jade orbs staring into her own, and pulled her hand away. Harry felt awkward and wrong, and squeezed his eyes shut, until her eyes no longer hovered above his own, and the next time he looked up, there was plain ceiling, dotted with stars, that must have been painted on.

"Good morning Harry. How are you feeling? Did you sleep well? Are you hungry?" Before he could blink again, the Malfoy mother was bombarding him with questions, to which he turned away, and towards the window. It was closed again. She repeated herself, a little slower this time, but the small boy merely shrugged at them, tugging at a strand of inky hair. She narrowed her eyes again, not that he saw, and reached forwards, placing her hand on his head again. He jerked and pulled away from the warm skin of her palm, but it came down once more, another coming to rest on his wrist.

Harry screamed.

It was a high sound, that echoed around the room, and at the same time, each window shattered under the wave of magic that exploded from the small boy on the bed, throwing Narcissa to the edge of the room with its force. And Harry screamed for Ron, the sound carrying through the bond they shared, the marks on his wrists glowing white hot. At the scream, Lucius had rushed into the room, barely avoiding shards of glass flying into his face, and stared at the chaos around him. His wife, lay on the floor, eyes shut and body limp, having passed out after the blast; the room was in tatters, with bed sheets having ripped and tangled over themselves. Perhaps, the most shocking thing, was the boy, sat on the bed, who glowed hot silver as magic swirled around him - only green eyes really visible through the cloud.

He couldn't quite figure out what was going on, but didn't dare step closer, for fear of being buffeted away like his wife had been. But oh, the sight was intoxicating, raw power squeezing and binding the boy, so bright and beautiful. Lucius could almost taste it, so close as he was, could feel the magic thrumming through the air like a beating heart. Green eyes, locked on him, pouring with tears - pain, need, fear, joy - the Malfoy elder couldn't quite tell, but even if he had known, there was nothing he could do.

* * *

In the bubble, it was hot, as hot as the fire, that Vernon had once pushed his face into, but strangely, it didn't burn him, just broke his lungs until he couldn't breath, and god did it hurt. All he knew was pain, as it ripped and lashed at his skin, leaving no marks. It seeped into his mouth, choking him, stifling the air there till it burnt when he gulped it in.

_No! Stop!_

A voice echoed in his mind, and yet, all he could do was sob brokenly at the pain. In his stomach, he felt empty, such a loss, that it ached, pulling his body in on itself, until he was bent over near double, clawing at his belly with sharp nails that ripped the skin apart. Thick tears dripped down his cheeks, and when he looked up, he saw grey eyes staring into his own. Ron. He needed Ron. Where was he? Help!

Another gut wrenching scream echoed throughout the room, wind rushing in through each of the broken windows to slash its way towards the boy. It hurt, it hurt so much!

* * *

Ron woke up to the sound of screams in his head and a pleading, a begging for help. Harry. Harry, his Harry needed him, and needed him now. It was perhaps the fastest he had ever moved in the morning, rushing to rock his father awake. Mother was away with Ginny and the twins, visiting a family member, whilst Charlie and Bill and Percy were all at Hogwarts, which left Ron by himself with his father. The father he was currently trying to shove awake, because his Harry was hurting, and needed him, and he was stuck in the Burrow with no way out.

Come on! Since when did his dad sleep so deeply. Well, obviously Arthur was going to take like nine hours to wake up, and Ron couldn't just wait, but at nine years old (almost ten) he had no way of getting out to Malfoy Manor. Sighing, he scuttled down the stairs to the kitchen, and then it hit him. Or rather, he hit it. The fireplace. The Floo network! Surely the Malfoys had a Floo.

Steeling himself, he reached up to grab the pot of powder between small hands. As soon as Ron's hands closed around the pot of glittering floo powder, another wave of desperation flooded down through their bond, making the young Weasley stagger and cry out, before fumbling to grab a big enough handful of powder. Having collected himself, Ron hurriedly stood within the old fireplace, throwing down the powder; himself and his shout of, "Malfoy Manor!" disappearing in a swirl of emerald green flames.

Breaking into a dead sprint as soon as his feet touched the floor, Ron careened out of the small, parlor like room, letting his short legs carry him through the large, echoing hallways as he followed the bond that was tugging, pulling him towards his Harry. The ginger let his mind go blank, Harry's screams and cries - both metaphorically and realistically - guiding him.

It seemed like an eternity later that Ron skidded through the door, chest heaving from exertion as he looked wildly around for his Bonded, finally spotting his balled up body racked with tremors upon the bed, Lucius cradling his comatose wife and keeping a wary eye on the magic bomb that was Harry.

* * *

It was chaos. Loud, broken, hellish chaos.

Then it was over, and Ron didn't know how he'd gotten to be holding Harry's hand again, or why his head hurt, but everything stopped, went still and silent, and for a moment, was calm.

Then, he didn't know anymore.


End file.
